


You Can Be King Again

by asuralucier



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: A Holiday in the Country, Canon Typical resentment between Uther and Arthur circa S1?, Ghosts, M/M, Stable boy!Merlin and lonely noble!Arthur, high society - Freeform, victorian gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-03 22:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Victorianesque — Arthur Pendragon, Marquess of Harington flees to his (father's) country estate for a well-deserved summer holiday. He has his hands full with Merlin, the surly stable boy and Arthur is also pretty sure there's a ghost haunting his father's house.(Repost. Previously titled "To a Wild Rose")





	1. A Face in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote this when I was eighteen. Found it, and still quite liked it, so I thought I would clean it up and post it here for prosperity. The story remains complete but I'll be posting it in three parts as the individual chapters are quite long. 
> 
> Thank you for reading again!

Even during the first weeks of a new, long-anticipated spring, Arthur Pendragon, Marquess of Harington, thought that London was dreary. The city was hardly ever dry. Even though he had promised his father that he'd actually go out a pay a proper round of calls today, the fact that it was raining sheets when he got up drastically changed his plans. He doubted anyone else was making calls in this weather.

Arthur had the queerest feeling that Uther Pendragon, his father, Duke of Devonshire (but a lot of times it seemed that the middle title was an honorary one rather than one rooted in any definition of reality) had always been more eager for his coming of age than Arthur himself. As far as he could tell, there was nothing particularly glorious about being eighteen...except that he had the entirety of Devonshire House to himself while Uther fled to Lismore Castle in a bid to shirk all of his patriarchal duties. Arthur hadn't seen him since the party -- which had magically coincided with Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee.

The party had not been fun for Arthur. He had spent the entire night escorting the Queen, who had seemed to be quite fond of him, since he supposedly looked like her husband Albert when he was younger. Arthur hadn't been too sure how he felt about that. He also had fought the urge to vomit every time Uther walked by preening like a proud peacock, as if Uther really had anything to be proud of.

But being stuck with the Queen also had some unspoken merits. For one thing, he'd been rescued from going on with the younger set, people his age. Arthur did not particularly dislike them, but they usually spent their time talking about fashion, hunting, or whether the devilishly handsome Lord Whitaker was finally getting married. (Actually, Arthur found the latter-most topic to be the most disturbing, Lord Whitaker was near his father's age and girls barely even of age really just shouldn't. Though this sort of thing happened all the time even as .he failed to see their logic. Maybe it was money, which fed easily into more conversation about fashion and hunting.)

On the topic of marriage, Arthur supposed it had been a second blessing of sorts that he’d somehow enamored himself to the Queen. He'd known for a long time that Uther hoped -- expected, really -- that he would offer his hand in marriage to Lady Morgana Le Fay. She was the second daughter of an French viscount that Uther liked to do business with. But frankly? Arthur didn't like Morgana, though he could admit that she was pretty.

The blessing in question went like this: at the end of the jubilee, Arthur had found himself conveniently betrothed to a Spanish Princess, Maria, one of Queen Victoria's favorite younger second cousins. Arthur had no idea how it happened, really; he barely even spoke any Spanish (his French was passable because he and Morgana fought all the time). His only guess was that he hadn't been quite sober -- what with the wine boring its own language -- and the Queen had done all the talking. It wasn't until he'd woken up the next morning and was informed by one of his servants that his future wife-to-be Princess Maria de Molina was paying him a call. Gwen could hardly keep a straight face.

"It's not that funny," Arthur groused as she fumbled with his ascot. "Let's get the Princess some tea. The Spanish drink tea, don't they?" 

"...I think so?" Gwen furrowed her eyebrows. "It's not as if I've ever been to Spain." 

Without the support and the obfuscation of alcohol, Arthur was pleased to find that Maria was still surprisingly pleasant. At least she knew English better than he knew Spanish and Morgana would have found their French to be laughable and absurd. They had that in common, at least. By the end of Maria's visit, during which Gwen had scurried in and out with tea and biscuits, Arthur decided that he could stand to be married to her, someday, even if she was older than him. He'd kissed her hand good-bye and promised to visit Spain, soon.

A week later after his party and the Queen's jubilee, Uther Pendragon stalked back into Devonshire House (like he really owned it) demanding an explanation. Apparently, the news of his son's betrothal to a Spanish Princess had just reached him amidst all the other muddled after-party news and Uther was, to say the least, furious.

“What were you _thinking_?” Uther thundered, “What am I going to tell the viscount?”

Arthur, lounging on a divan and quite comfortable, only winced once. It helped that he was armed with a large glass of Premier Cru, in which he now took hasty refuge. He also took the time to wipe his mouth, “Tell him I was drunk and the Queen approved. She officiated.”

“You --”

Arthur was aware that he might have just ruined all future business transactions between the Viscount Le Fay and his father, but he wasn't too worried. After all, Uther Pendragon usually got around snags like this and worse just fine. If Arthur was lucky, his father would go back to Lismore Castle and forget that he was angry after a week or two. 

“Father, if I marry Maria, that puts me in the Queen's good graces and in line for the Spanish throne.” Come to think of that, he rather liked the idea. Being the seventh Duke of Devonshire wasn't near as appealing as being King Arthur of Spain. “Besides, you're not thinking of going against what the Queen wants, are you?”

Uther glared at him, red faced and angry, and for a moment, Arthur thought that the Duke was really going to raise his hand. Usually, he'd have a riding crop handy, but since Arthur had officially inherited the Devonshire House more than two months ago, he'd made sure that the supply of riding crops was severely lacking, quite nonexistent. He was sure that the horses would thank him, too. 

“You'll never become King of Spain. Don't be ridiculous.” Uther snarled at him, “I trust you'll fix this and tell Queen Victoria that this is all a horrible mistake. And of course, I expect you to apologize to Lady Morgana and her father.”

The thought of _apologizing_ to Lady Morgana made Arthur feel immediately ill. The wine he was drinking cured that too. 

 

In the end, Uther had left a long list of things that his son, for the love of high society, really should be doing. The list was really _rather_ long, and Arthur hadn't done any of it because he was afraid of its inherent longness. He hadn't made any calls, he hadn't written to tell Queen Victoria to tell her that he wanted to break off his betrothal with Princess Maria just because his father wanted to do business with some French viscount with a banshee for a daughter, he hadn't checked in on the particulars of the new estate that Uther had just bought in India, and he certainly hadn't apologized to Lady Morgana or the Viscount Le Fay.

What Arthur had done was this: he'd written to Princess Maria once, half a piece of parchment to practice his Spanish. A week later, she'd sent him back a novella of letters bound with scarlet ribbons. He gamely trudged through a paragraph a day.

Arthur put down the pile of letters as Gwen stole into the room. She was his favorite chambermaid (and at the moment, his only chambermaid). When the Devonshire House had changed hands, most of the staff remembered Arthur as a little monster that would not eat potatoes and mustard, and therefore, had made the wise choice to flee with Uther to Lismore Castle in Ireland. 

Arthur's current staff was laughably tiny. It probably couldn't even be construed by the standard of most people that he had a staff. It consisted of Gwen, Lancelot the all purpose butler, and an elderly cook named Harriet who stayed behind only because she'd owed Arthur's mother Igraine a horrible life debt of some sort. She'd never talked to Arthur about it.

The Devonshire House had close to fifty rooms, and Arthur on a good day occupied maybe six of them.

“You're brooding again, Arthur.” Gwen said, setting down his mid-morning tea, “Why don't you go out?”

“It's _wet_ outside.”

“It's London. You're not allowed to use that as an excuse.” she reminded him. “and you know, it might actually help your social standing if you went out and made some calls.”

“I have a feeling that all my hopes at a decent social standing were dashed the day I became Uther Pendragon's son.” Arthur said darkly. Holding one of the largest dukedoms in England also meant that Uther Pendragon was one of the wealthiest men in the country, and he made sure people knew it. People knew it, even if they didn't want to. That was part of the problem.

“Arthur, you're so drastic.” Gwen shook her head, “What's that?” She pointed at his letters.

“From Princess Maria.” Arthur leaned back on the divan again, “I'm writing back to tell her she better write to me in English. I'm going to be King of Spain.”

“Isn't her brother Crown Prince?”

“Well, yes, but Alonso's a decade and then some older than Maria, and he has a penchant for Italian cigars. I'm going to send a batch as a gesture of goodwill.” Arthur shrugged, “Surely I'll be the King of Spain for a couple of years, at least.”

“I don't think the Spanish people would like it very much if their King didn't even know how to speak Spanish.” She grinned at him.

“...I'll learn eventually.”

“So you have no intention of backing out?” Gwen reached for a biscuit. She mostly made them for herself since Arthur never ate any.

“What do you mean, backing out?”

“Doesn't your father want you to marry Lady Morgana?”

“And since when have you known me to do anything my father tells me to do?” Arthur asked her rather wearily. When Uther asked nicely, it was another story, but he hardly ever did. “Besides, I think the whole of European nobility would erupt into war if I proposed to Lady Morgana. We certainly don't need another war, and I'm not going out of my way to anger her army of suitors. She's probably going to end up like Anne Boleyn.”

“ _Arthur_.” Gwen's face darkened considerably.“Don't say that. You might accidentally put her under a curse.”

Arthur waited a moment before speaking again, “Besides, even people like Morgana deserve to be happy and she's not going to be happy with me. I know that already.”

“And are you going to be happy with Princess Maria?” Gwen asked delicately, refilling his cup for him.

“I hope so. I'll try, at least.”

His mother had tried. She'd been much younger than his father, and still, it didn't seem fair that he'd still outlived her for the better part of Arthur's life. Arthur had been seven when she'd fallen victim to a vicious cough. He'd never gotten the chance to ask her if she succeeded, and it was only because he'd wanted the world to know it wasn't fair he became a little monster afterwards. There'd probably been a better way to go about it. But he'd only known his father's grief and the way Uther had dealt with his wife's death was to lock himself for a week only subsisting on biscuits and tea. People whispered then, that the Duke had _loved her after all_ , like they'd never before realized. 

Maybe Arthur looked too much like her.

“Arthur.”

“Pardon, did you say something?” Arthur blinked tiredly at her.

“I asked you if you were done with your tea.”

“Oh...I am.” Arthur nodded dismissively at the tray on the table.

Gwen got up from the chair and took the tray with her. She'd never tell him, but she often wondered if Arthur was sick in the way that always hid itself quietly away from its ailing patient. He always looked so pale and hardly moved from his divan by the window. “Arthur, I think you need a summer holiday. You can invite Princess Maria. Let's just get away from London a little while, I think it will do you good.”

 

t had been a long time since Arthur had taken any kind of holiday, because being in the Devonshire House assured that Uther would never show up unannounced. At any other family seat, however, things were different. He purposely didn't send a message to Lismore Castle and then made some calls (most of them twenty minutes or less because people apparently avoided the Pendragon name like the plague. Which was fine. He wasn't going to be in London for the next three months anyway.) The fact that he wasn't going to be missed by anyone (except maybe the Queen, who had extracted from him a promise to write) made Arthur want to stay away for longer. 

They arrived at the Chatsworth House bright and early in the morning. It'd been a while since he had been here, and Arthur was surprised that the country view was so refreshing compared to cold, gray rainy London. The mansion stood atop a hill next to a winding river and it looked even bigger than the house that Arthur had left.  
“Well, of course it looks bigger.” Lancelot told him, “...Over a hundred rooms, twice the size of Devonshire, Arthur.”

He meant well, Arthur was sure, but he was suddenly reminded how the other dukes and duchesses and viscounts and viscountesses spent their summer holidays. He had heard on one of his brief calls to a Lady Louisa that Lady Morgana had been whisked off to Italy, to Rome to spend the summer in a house that would actually fill up. (The devilishly handsome Lord Whitaker was said to be making an appearance. Was he jealous? Not really, actually, make that not at all.) It made Arthur feel decidedly pathetic that he was here on his summer holiday in the company of one chambermaid and one butler.

He refrained from inviting Princess Maria, because Arthur didn't want her to see how pathetic he was. He was going to keep that secret to himself for as long as possible. Having sent their trunks ahead of time, he invited Lancelot and Gwen out for a ride along the river before approaching the house. 

At the grand arch of Chatsworth House stood only two people. The architecture dwarfed them. A bent over old man, and a pale boy that looked around Arthur's age. As Arthur's party came to a halt, the old man creaked forward. “Arthur! My, how you've grown.”

Arthur had to blink a couple of times. The last time he'd been at Chatsworth, his mother had been alive. “...Gaius?” Gaius had been the retainer of Chatsworth ever since his father had inherited the dukedom. He was even older than Uther, and Arthur used to think he was immortal. But he had definitely aged.

“The same, young sir. The very same. Let me look at you.” And Gaius looked at him up and down, and up and down again. It was starting to get a little uncomfortable, until Gaius touched him on the arm and said, “You're the splitting image of Duchess Igraine. I think your mother would have been very proud.”

“Do I really?” Strangely, the words lifted Arthur's heart.

“Yes, especially the eyes, Arthur. You have Igraine's eyes.” Gaius smiled at him. “Please, you must be tired. Merlin will take your horses to the stable, you don't have to worry about that.”

Merlin. Arthur's eyes went to the boy that stood quietly behind Gaius. He wore clothes a size loose on him, though he was tall. Merlin dipped his head, somehow, the gesture was almost mocking, “Sir.” Arthur didn't even know how it was mocking. It just was, he couldn't put his finger on it.

“This is my nephew, Merlin.” Gaius said by the way of introduction, “Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, Marquess of Harington.”

To which Merlin muttered, “I know who he is, Gaius. If I want to know who he is, I only have to look around. ”

"Actually. Chatsworth belongs to my father. I'm a guest here, too." Arthur found himself protesting. He might have said more, except Lancelot put a placating hand on his shoulder. 

Merlin just fixed him with a cooling look. After that, he swung up on Gwen's horse, and clicked his tongue gently. Lancelot's horse followed first, and then Arthur's horse, looking at first supremely confused, caught on and trotted off. This was surprising to Arthur. Laurent usually never obeyed anyone else. Once, he had even kicked Uther and Arthur had never properly apologized. As far as he was concerned, Laurent's stubbornness was what made him a good horse and that had been by far his finest hour. 

After Merlin had gone, Gaius bowed his head. "He looks after the horses here, Arthur. I don't know if you remember. He has a way with them, but not with people." 

"I kind of know the feeling," Arthur said, even though he still felt miffed. 

 

“It's nice, see?” Lancelot lugged the last trunk across the floor to Arthur's bed, “Now you can actually see some green and the river outside the window when you wake up. 

Arthur couldn't disagree; it was a nice room, twice the size of what he was used to, it was almost the size of his sitting room. But it was big, and he felt it threatened to swallow him up. “Isn't there a smaller room in this house? This room is big enough for ten people.”  
“Gaius said there were some rooms in the second floor of the west wing that you might like. They're small. You used to sleep in one of them when you were a boy. Shall I show you to that room?”

 

On the second floor of the west wing, Arthur felt more at home; maybe some part of him remembered being a boy here. While Lancelot busied himself rearranging Arthur's two trunks, Gwen went down to the kitchens and fetched a snack. She reappeared with a tray of strawberry tarts, “Everyone seems to remember you loved these, Arthur.”

“I did?”

She shrugged. “How would I know? I wasn't around that long ago. Arthur, cheer up. You're on holiday. This is not London and it's not raining sheets.” Gwen pursed her lips, “If you're still unhappy about the stable boy, I'm sure he's just shy.”

The stable boy. Actually, Arthur hadn't thought about him at all. “What's his name again?”

“Merlin, I think.”  
Arthur reached for a strawberry tart. They were good, unexpectedly. He guessed his sweet tooth wore off as he got older, for a good reason because his mother had liked strawberries too. Arthur didn't know why he suddenly remembered that. He finished the tart and gestured at the plate. “Can you wrap one up for me? I think I want to go riding.”

Not so much riding as taunting a stable boy who disliked people, but Arthur guessed it was something to do.

 

It took Arthur a couple of minutes to find the stable, not that it was hard to miss. It was practically a mansion on its own, but it was far enough from the house to be tedious on foot. That sort of just missed the point of a stable, Arthur thought. It took him a couple of more minutes to navigate the maze of stalls and found Merlin brushing his horse. Laurent stood perfectly still.

“Merlin, is it?”

Arthur thought Merlin's shoulders flinched before he turned around. “Sir,” he nodded curtly, “Or would you prefer Marquess?”

“I prefer neither.” Arthur walked up to him. Laurent tossed his head and whinnied at him. Arthur petted his nose. “I'm surprised he lets him near you.”

“I have my ways,” Merlin shrugged and turned back to this work, “What do you prefer then? Duke of Devonshire, soon-to-be?”

“Why do you do that?” Arthur looked at him, “What have I ever done to you?”

Merlin pursed his lips, “Do you want to ride?” he asked finally, “I've changed his shoes. He should be fine now.”

Laurent nuzzled his nose. Arthur sighed, “Fine.”

“I'll saddle him for you, then. Just give me a minute.” Leaving briefly, he was soon back with a saddle, not the one he'd used, but a saddle was a saddle. He threw it unceremoniously over Laurent and clicked the straps into place. “What's his name?”

“Laurent.” Arthur said, although he wished he hadn't. It seemed a too personal piece of information for a person who just practically said he didn't want to get personal.

“That's a nice name.” Merlin stepped back, “He's all yours, I'd stay away from the wood if I were you, it's nearly dark, you might not be able to find your way back.”

“I was under the impression that you didn't like people.” Arthur swung up on his horse, “Why the sudden concern?”

“It's not concern.” Merlin set his chin stubbornly, “It's so Gaius doesn't have my head for dinner. In the interest of self-preservation.”

Unbelievable. Arthur suddenly wanted to hit him hard with something blunt, but his current inventory was far from apt. Still, he refused to see the advantage of carrying a riding crop. He set Laurent off at a gallop and left the stable.

 

When Arthur returned to the stable an hour later, Merlin was nowhere in sight. He left Laurent in a stall near the entrance, since he didn't want to navigate the labyrinth again, and went back to the mansion. He was feeling only slightly better after the ride.

Dinner was served in the main dining room, although technically he was the only one allowed to eat, while the other people stood and watched. If he was home, Lancelot and Gwen would have eaten with him, but with Gaius frittering around like a nervous squirrel, they remained at their station. Arthur would have to thank them later.

It was a five course meal, including roast lamb for the main course and chiffon cake for dessert. It looked like the staff had outdone themselves because no one had seen the young Marquess in ages and my, how he had grown.

All throughout dinner, Arthur didn't see Merlin. He finally asked Gaius about it, and Gaius just shrugged.

“Merlin hardly ever comes to the house. He likes to stay near the stable.”

“How does he eat?” Arthur pressed.

“He comes to the kitchen, usually...After dinner, and picks up food then.” Gaius paused awkwardly, “Arthur, you'd do well to stay away from my nephew.”

 

“He told you to stay away from his nephew.” Lancelot stopped him in the hallway. “And it would so appear that Merlin hates you anyway. What are you doing?”

“Merlin is a servant of this estate as much as anyone. Even if he hates me.” Arthur pushed past him to descend the stairs, “I just want to make sure he's fed like the rest of us.”

“You know, for one of the rich lot you're...” Lancelot trailed off and leaned against the railing. “I'm actually kind of glad I work for you.”

“Thanks.” Arthur replied sourly. "Just don't let the Duke hear you say that." 

 

“No, Merlin hasn't come by yet, sir.” one of the cooks told him. “On some days he doesn't come, but we usually leave his food for him right there by the door.” She gestured to a plate. “Most days he comes and picks it up, and it's back here by morning. Else...none of us really see much of Merlin.”

“How long has he been working here?” Arthur wanted to know.

“He's been here on and off after you left.” The cook told him, “He's had some schooling, but I supposed that didn't suit him. He's come back to care for Gaius. Gaius is slowing down, you know.”

Arthur knew. “I'm going to bring Merlin his food.” He picked up the plate.

“But...it's after dark! You don't know this estate well enough yet. If you wander, you might get lost...” The cook correctly read Arthur's determined expression and quieted.

Arthur was already out the door.

 

The stable somehow seemed even more foreboding after dark. Laurent wasn't where Arthur had left him, so maybe Merlin had come and moved him to another stall. Merlin's food was growing cold, but it was hard to make any kind of progress when he couldn't see two feet in front of him. But Arthur wasn't in a particular hurry to trip over his own feet.

He nearly shot five feet up in the air when a dull light flashed in his face. Merlin stood there, looking wary, and even more unamused. He was holding an oil lamp.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was...” Arthur steeled himself, “Is that how you talk to someone who obviously went out of his way to bring you dinner?”

There was now a hiccup in Merlin's usual sternness, “You brought me dinner?”

“Yes, idiot I brought you food.” Arthur said, “All the way from the house. It's cold now but you better eat it. I'm not going to have myself a malnourished stable boy.”

“I'm older than you.” Merlin said finally, most likely taking offense at how 'stable boy' rolled off Arthur's tongue. “Gaius said you were eighteen.”

“Stable man then. If it means so much to you. Eighteen or not, I'm still the Marquess,” Arthur reminded him tersely. “And you're advised to change your tone.”

“I thought you didn't want to be called the Marquess,” Merlin said, as he took the plate from Arthur with his free hand.

“I changed my mind.” Arthur pursed his lips, “You're to call me the Marquess until I say otherwise.” He gestured at the plate, “Now, eat.”

Merlin gave a weary sigh. “Come up to my room. I'm not going to eat standing up.”

 

Merlin's room resembled a large closet. It was the stable loft, with a bed, an old trunk by the foot of the bed, and a bucket. Merlin set the lamp on the floor and sat down on the bed.

“Do you seriously live here?”

“Where should I live then, Marquess?” Merlin looked at him balefully, “Would you have me in a stall with the horses?”

Arthur sighed, moving to sit down on the bed next to Merlin, half expecting Merlin to tell him that he was under no circumstances, allowed to sit there. “I brought you _food_.” That certainly solved nothing, but you'd think Merlin would at least try to be a little bit more grateful.

"I am not going to thank you for doing something I'm perfectly capable of doing myself," Merlin stabbed half a sausage almost savagely. "Has it occurred to you I'm not hungry?"

Arthur opened, and then closed his mouth. “You're not ill, are you?”

Merlin shrugged. “Possibly. I don't think so.” He stared up at the low ceiling. “Marquess,” he remarked mildly, “you must really hate it when people don't like you.”

He stopped there, but Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to retaliate, because Merlin had spoken truth, as ugly and cutthroat as the truth had been. “Has anyone anyone ever told you that you've got a despicable tongue?”

“Fortunately for you, my tongue is only despicable to the right people, Marquess.”

Not that Arthur worshipped or held his title in particularly high regards, but somehow Merlin made 'Marquess' sound filthy, as if it were an incurable disease. He held his tongue and said nothing.

After a few halfhearted nibbles, Merlin clattered his plate on the floor and curled up on his bed, careful to stay away from Arthur. Arthur noted for the first time that Merlin's mattress was rather lumpy. It couldn't be comfortable, could it? But Merlin looked to be used to it. Arthur rose to his feet.

“You know, there's over a hundred other rooms...” He looked at the figure huddled on the bed, “Most of them with more comfortable beds. You're more than welcome to choose one of them. Doesn't even have to be the servants' quarters.”

“I'm fine right here.” Merlin huddled closer to himself, as if to will Arthur away. “I don't want to go into that house.”

 

“Merlin hates me.” Arthur announced to Gwen that night as she smoothed his sheets.

She merely looked at him and shook her head, “You shouldn't let the others hear you talk to me like that. They'll be scandalized that I don't know my place.”

“I can talk to you in whatever way I wish. You're just my chambermaid.” Arthur sank down on soft pillows, “You've never brought this up before.”

“I never needed to.” Gwen said, stepping away from the bed, “You own the house in London. You don't own Chatsworth. It belongs to your father and these are your father's servants, your father's eyes...or have you forgotten?”

“...I haven't.” Arthur sighed heavily, turning on his side. "But they're all nice enough. I don't think they'd do that to me." At the back of his mind was Merlin's reproach. That Arthur wanted to be liked. As if that was an awful thing. 

“Did you want him to like you?” Gwen asked.

“I don't know.” And perhaps that wasn't really quite the truth. Arthur really did not want to think about it at all.

Gwen picked up the lamp, “...Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Gwen.”

 

He lay awake for a long time after Gwen left. The house seemed too still, and Arthur could glean nothing from the silence. Maybe nothing reminded him of how he grew up. Perhaps that was a good thing too, it was not wise to be too sentimental in a house where his father kept eyes. He'd been told that Uther Pendragon had been down to Chatsworth to spend holidays once or twice. The other servants had been slow to divulge the Duke's company of choice, so Arthur thought he'd probably vacationed with a mistress.

Arthur wiped sweat from his forehead and reminded himself to ask Gwen to leave him a lamp the next night so he could practice his Spanish. That would probably take his mind off of how much the house had changed.

He bolted upright though, when his door creaked open. A figure came to a stop in his doorway and just looked at him. The figure seemed shrouded by some kind of fog, even dust, but Gwen had made a point of telling him that the room had been cleaned earlier, all the cobwebs and whatnots chased away.

“Gwen...?” No, it was too tall to be Gwen.

“Lancelot?”

There was silence. The shadowed face held eerily still. Maybe it was leering, maybe it was smiling. Arthur didn't know.

“Who are you?”

Arthur blinked, and the figure was gone, though his door still hung open, as if in a reminder that someone had been. Arthur got up and closed it, and then wished desperately for sleep. 

 

The next morning, Arthur supposed he must have looked a fantastic mess because everyone was especially _nice_ to him. Gwen even dressed him, and Gaius must have asked about fifty times in one breath if he thought he had a fever, if he was ill, if he needed to rest. By the time they let him go down to breakfast, Arthur just wanted to go to sleep again.

He sipped absently at his glass of sherry. It was warm, and it left his head pleasantly foggy.

After most of the kitchen staff had departed, and only Gwen and Lancelot remained, Arthur said, “...Last night.”

“Did you not sleep well?” Lancelot asked.

“I didn't sleep, at all.” Arthur said. “I saw a face. He opened my door and he looked at me. I don't think I knew him. I don't think he was one of the servants, either. Will you please check if someone has been by my room? It's a mean trick.”

Gwen touched his arm in a motherly gesture, “Maybe you're ill. Were you dreaming?”

Arthur downed the rest of his wine in a vicious gulp and reached for a silk napkin. “I better have been.” The alternative was unacceptable after all, Arthur didn't believe in ghosts.


	2. The Thing About Magic

“Why do you not like the house?”

It was Arthur's third week at Chatsworth, and he supposed that he had made some semblance of progress. So far, he'd written Princess Maria a full piece of parchment, describing the house. It was probably not as grand as the castle she lived in, but he was sincere when he wrote that he wished she could be here to see it. If she liked quiet, big, lordly houses, Chatsworth needed to be at the top of her list immediately. It had been a week without rain, and that alone put him in ridiculously good spirits. He wrote about that too. Similarly, Arthur had written the Queen, mostly just wishing her well. Though his letter to the Queen was written in English, it almost took just as long because he rigorously checked his spelling.

What Arthur didn't write about to either Maria or the Queen, was the fact that a face that watched him every night when he slept, and he didn't mention the fact that his stable boy deserved a good thwack on the head. Merlin steadily called him 'Marquess' like he’d asked, but made it sound like an insult every time the title rolled off his tongue. That was something Arthur hadn’t asked for.

In that respect, there was no progress. None whatsoever.

Merlin was mucking out a stall while Arthur watched; he would have offered to help, but he was pretty certain of what the answer to that would be. He’d sooner just save himself the trouble. So far, Merlin’s surliness hadn’t disappointed: “ -- Because, Marquess, I just don't.” He paused to look up from his work. “Do I need a reason? Maybe you’d like for me to write it down.”

“Why must you be so vile to me?” Arthur asked, with his arms crossed. “I've done nothing to you. You could at least try to be a little bit pleasant to me in turn.”

Merlin said nothing.

For whatever reason, Arthur was emboldened by Merlin’s surliness and pushed forward, “...Is it because the house is haunted? Do you think that’s what’s going on? That it’s infectious like something like the plague, that I might haunt you instead?” Arthur asked. He was of the opinion that ghosts certainly didn't exist, but perhaps Merlin would be of a different opinion. So far, he consistently disagreed with Arthur on everything possible.

Merlin flinched.

“You’ve seen him, Marquess?”

Arthur straightened up. There was no ghost, but judging by Merlin's reaction, he definitely thought there was one, “Yes, I saw,” he said with a nod. “Every night he comes to me and he watches me. Even when I lock my door.”

 

“Locked doors hardly mean anything to ghosts, Marquess. You of all people should know that very well.”

“What do you mean me of all people?” Arthur demanded. “What have I done?” He would have shook Merlin if the other man hadn't reeked so obnoxiously of horse manure.

To which Merlin just shrugged, “Perhaps you haven't done anything, but the ghosts don't know that.” His lips curled in a faint, ironic smile. “It’s why they’re ghosts.”

“There are no ghosts.” Arthur crossed his arms again. “It's probably just someone's idea of a joke. Say, yours.”

“So the ghost doesn't exist,” Merlin sounded superbly amused; he was even amused it enough that he seemed to have ignored Arthur’s accusation in its entirety. Or perhaps he just thought it absurd and ergo not worth addressing. “Even if you've seen him with your own eyes, every night. Else why would he come and watch you?”

“Well, obviously they don't.” Arthur turned away from him, “I'm going for a ride. Where's Laurent?”

“Turn right, the third stall.” Merlin waved his hand vaguely. “If you'd like to ride into the woods, I'll join you.”

 

Merlin rode bareback without a saddle, and Arthur had to admit he was impressed by Merlin’s form. Merlin’s horse was a gentle brown mare that Arthur didn't think suited him very well all things considered. But perhaps Gaius was right, Merlin was better with horses than he was with people and in a slightly different light, Merlin could be seen as tolerable to people in the company of horses. At least, Arthur was doing his part in making conversation. “You look like you've never rode with a saddle before.”

“I haven't,” Merlin shook his head. “I don't think Rhea would wear a saddle willingly, at any rate. I barely convinced her to wear a bit.”

“I thought Gaius said you had a way with horses.” Arthur remarked mildly.

“I don't force them to do anything they don't like, Marquess. It's really that simple.”

Arthur bit his lip, but stayed wisely silent. They'd rode into the woods now, and he fell back a little to let Merlin take the lead. Laurent whinnied at this, as if he was displeased.  
“Merlin.”

Merlin glanced back at him, “I do like it here,” he said unexpectedly, “I come here to avoid your father, the Duke.”

“...My father?”

“He's come before, you know.” Merlin smiled a little not-so-nice smile to himself, “He knows well not to follow me here, as I'm the only one that knows these woods.”

Arthur saw an opportunity. He took it, delicately. “Has my father ever...come here with company?”

“Of the most despicable sort,” Merlin shuddered without further encouragement. This was either a good sign or a bad one. “Duchess Caroline Cavendish. Lady Josephine Henry. Are they your father's mistresses?”

“I'd rather not know that.” Arthur privately shuddered along with him, except that he was disciplined enough to hide it. Duchess Cavendish and Lady Henry were both aristocrats with plenty of what his father liked best -- wealth. But how Uther Pendragon could have possibly overlooked the snag that both of them had husbands...that remained a mystery to his son and maybe that was better for all involved.

For once, Merlin agreed with him. “Me too.”

It felt nice and Arthur almost made the mistake of smiling at him.

“Your father could see the ghost, you know.” Merlin glanced at him. “Of course, just like you, he insisted that the ghost didn't exist. Probably because it makes him feel less guilty.” He nudged his horse's side. “Anyway, let’s get going, Gaius will have my head if I don't have you back in time for lunch.”

This was the second time that Merlin had mentioned Gaius doing him bodily harm; that, coupled along with Uther's penchant for seeing ghosts made Arthur's head want to go in strange directions. But he put that aside for a moment. Arthur turned Laurent around and rode beside Merlin this time, instead of behind him. “My father could see the...ghost?” He asked, before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea to feed Merlin's rather bothersome delusions.

Merlin's mouth twitched, “I thought you said there was no ghost, Marquess.”

 

“I heard you spent all morning riding with the stable boy.” Lancelot closed the door quietly behind him. “Which...I guess belies your good mood. How was it?”

Arthur nibbled listlessly on a biscuit. “He still hates me, but I think we're making progress.”

“You sound optimistic,” Lancelot said, sinking into a cushioned chair. “That's refreshing.”

“Thank you, I think.” Arthur glanced towards the window. “I need your honest opinion.”

“Let me guess. Are you chasing a lost cause with the stable boy?” Lancelot tilted his head, “Yes, both Gwen and I think so. We're your voice of reason, you know. But if you're bored.”

Arthur rubbed at his forehead, “Sometimes, you two are a little _too_ reasonable. But...there's just something about him. Merlin.” Not that He shook himself quickly, “But it's not that...it's about the ghost.”

“What ghost?” Lancelot sat up a little straighter now.

“You know,” Arthur waved his hand, “the one that I keep telling you about.”

“Where you thought it was me?” Lancelot blinked at him, “I don't see the big deal about this, Arthur...a ghost is a ghost. It floats around. It's not going to hurt anyone. At least, I don't think.”

“So you can see it then?”

“Of course not, I'm just saying...if there really was.” Lancelot looked at him, like Arthur had gone a little bit insane. And maybe his young master had, with the stable boy to turn his head. “I'll stand guard outside your room tonight, Arthur.”

“Merlin says my father could see it.” Arthur mused idly as he stood up.

“And Merlin hates you,” Lancelot reminded him kindly. “Which probably means he's not telling the truth. Honestly, we'd hear about it if the Duke of Devonshire was seeing things.” He too, got up and walked over to where Arthur stood. “I think you're in need of a very long nap. And I really don't think it's wise to be in his company for too long. You're starting to sound a little insane. Which, I get is in tune with summer madness and all you know, but.”

“Merlin's not making me insane,” Arthur protested, “He's just...” and then he faltered.

Lancelot looked at him with pitying eyes, “I'll fetch you some mead.” He said. "It might help you sleep."

 

For what it was worth, Arthur did better at finding the stables, which meant Merlin's plate of leftovers was not ice cold, but only lukewarm by the time he got there. It took him another few moments to find the winding staircase that led up to Merlin's loft. One thing that hadn't changed throughout the week was that the stable was always silent.

Arthur wondered how Merlin could stand it. Granted, the stable wasn't as big as the house itself, but even with Gwen and Lancelot to talk to, everything seemed to swallow him up. He couldn't even begin to imagine having no one to talk to. Maybe the ghost didn't even come here, which was why Merlin felt safe.

The door to Merlin's room wasn't exactly closed, and Arthur almost dropped the plate.

Merlin was stooped by his bucket completely naked, running a wet cloth over his pale chest. He was so pale that Arthur thought he practically glistened. His clothes were in a pile by the trunk near his bed. Arthur quickly averted his eyes.

“Merlin, for these types of activities, you should at least close the door.” Arthur mumbled red-faced to the floor.

Merlin did not look all that shocked to see him, dipping the cloth into the bucket again after fixing Arthur with a long look, “If anything, I think you should stop dropping in unannounced, Marquess. If I don't leave my door open to let the air in, the loft will reek. Besides, no one comes in here.”

Arthur refused to look up. “Still...”

“If you would, Marquess, don't enjoy yourself too much. I'll be decent in a couple of minutes.”

 

But the warm flush in Arthur's cheeks would not go away, even after Merlin was decent again. He sat on Merlin's bed, watching Merlin pick at his food. They sat close enough so that their knees touched, but Arthur doubted that Merlin noticed.

“Merlin.”

Merlin chewed delicately on a piece of sausage. “Yes?”

“Does the ghost ever come here?”

“For someone who thinks ghosts don't exist...” Merlin smirked faintly at him, “I don't understand you at all, Marquess. But for your question, yes. He does, often.”

“I don't think I'm that hard to figure out.” Arthur told him truthfully as he set a friendly hand on Merlin's shoulder. “You're the one that's determined as ever to give me headaches. Is it because he talks to you? Or you need someone to talk to, even though you’re so damn surly all the time?”

“Do I really?” Merlin's smirk slipped a little. “But you have everything, Marquess.” For the first time, he looked forlorn, alone, almost ashamed. “A ghost that people don't even believe in, that's all I have.” He stood up, and put the plate of food (once again half eaten) on top of the trunk. His steps seemed uncertain and heavy, like an old man's.

“I don't think I have everything.” Arthur spoke idly to the ceiling.

“When the Duke passes then.” Merlin laid down again, “You'll have this house, and then you'll have everything.”

Arthur glanced at him, “I also have to become the king of Spain. You forget that,” he added dryly. “I'm promised to a Princess.”

Merlin's lips twitched just slightly as he tilted his head. “With such high aspirations, I fail to see how trying to make nice with me is productive. I'm certainly not going to get you the Spanish throne. Hopefully, your darling princess will procure that for you instead. Is it Princess Cristina?”

“Do you have a problem with me trying to be nice to you?” Arthur had to ask after a very belated pause. It was a question worth asking. “And no, it's not. It's her sister Maria.”

Merlin shrugged. “You don't know what you're asking me,” he evaded, turning his face away from Arthur. “And Maria's too old for you.”

That Arthur did not expect. Sure, he'd always thought of Princess Maria as older, but in Merlin's words and the way she must look in his world, she was suddenly _old_.When he looked over, Merlin had curled himself into a ball again. The mattress was lumpy in some places, and thoroughly uncomfortable, but it was all right after a while and Arthur was certainly spoiled. He lay there staring at Merlin's back.

“Sure it is. It's a simple question. Are you jealous of Princess Maria, Merlin?”

“I'm not jealous.” Merlin, if not jealous, did certainly sound miffed. “...I'm just saying she's old.”

“The whole of Spain would be appalled.” Arthur said.

“Lucky me, you're hardly the whole of Spain, Marquess.” Merlin rolled around to look at him, and their faces suddenly too close, Merlin's eyes were too bright, like two blue moons shining in the dark.

“I don't understand you, Merlin.”

“You're not meant to, Marquess.” For the first time, Arthur saw Merlin smile, shy, uncertain. Captivating. “You don't even believe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your world, Marquess, it's an unforgiving one. It's full of useless wealth, people masquerading their true intentions. You'll one day marry a Princess, perhaps become the king of Spain. Crowns are heavy, you might break your neck. Your world will never allow you to be like this ever again.”

Arthur barely registered that Merlin had closed the distance between their faces and was tracing a finger along Arthur's cheekbone. It was certainly not the first time that Arthur had been touched like this, but this was the first time his spine shivered. "When you put it that way, my world doesn't sound like much, does it?” he said. He didn't really think so, but Merlin needed this answer to keep going, Arthur thought.

“Because it isn't,” Merlin said.

“What's in your world, then?” Arthur reached for Merlin's other hand. To his surprised, Merlin's thin fingers curled readily around his own.

“There's this blasted house. The horses, this godforsaken room, Gaius.” Merlin took his hand away from Arthur's face, “There's the ghost, too --” He broke off abruptly.

Arthur pressed forward, his voice very low, “There's something else too, isn't there?”

Merlin shifted his eyes.

“I can't stand you, but there's you, Marquess.”

Arthur had to blink twice, but his cheeks flamed before his mouth could react.

“Oh.”

Merlin's lips were too red, too close. It was as if time had stopped, when he tilted his head a little to lick at Arthur's mouth. After Arthur recovered from the initial shock, he cupped a hand under Merlin's jaw, feeling the merest hint of stubble prickling at his skin. Perhaps he'd wanted this too, all along, the world that held him prisoner did not allow him to ask for it. Maybe that was what Merlin meant.

Merlin made a little sound in his throat, it sounded a lot like 'move' and Arthur moved, even though he was unsure of how to move. But somehow, Merlin had him pressed against the wall.

“I...”

Arthur found one arm curled around Merlin's neck and Merlin had his other hand in a death grip -- hard enough for him to feel his bones cracking.

Merlin's world was one that Arthur knew nothing about. But still, that didn't make the world any less tantalizing and he was already halfway lost within the labyrinth of come-hither eyes and a serpent tongue.

“Merlin, Merlin...it's all right.” Arthur kissed his cheeks and his throat, soothing a scar that he couldn't see. And suddenly, Merlin was limp against him. Arthur guided his head to the lumpy pillow and smoothed back his hair. “It's all right.”

Merlin looked at him, his face very pale. “Marquess...”

Arthur put a finger on Merlin's mouth; his lips were soft. “Arthur. I want to be Arthur now.”

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke his name, tasted it as if it was the name of a god. “You should go. The ghost...it will be angry with you if you don't leave my room.”  
“Does the ghost...ever hurt you?” Arthur asked him.

“No, not me.” Merlin shook his head, “He'll never hurt me. But you...he hates you. You and your father both.”

“So the ghost is like you.” Actually, that was a possibility. He only saw a shadow of a face, he never saw the face. “Merlin, are you the ghost? Do you play the ghost because you don't have the courage to kiss me?”

“ _Marquess_...” Merlin was horrified. “No! I'd never...”

That was the first time Merlin sounded remotely human. Arthur pressed a kiss to his temple and left in a daze. He still didn't understand Merlin, at all.

 

Lancelot and Gwen sat outside of his door on the floor, munching on a tray of strawberry tarts. Arthur paused at the top of the stairs, looking only a little scandalized, “...What's all this?”

“We're going to see if we can nab the ghost once and for all tonight.” Gwen informed him cheerily between tarts. “Are you going to join us--” She paused and then looked at him. “...Arthur, you've been at the stables again, haven't you?”

“I...erm.” He thought about lying. Was very nearly tempted, but finally nodded, “Yes, I was.”

“You should at least try to hide it a little.” She said, and Lancelot almost choked. Gwen hit him, and Arthur slid down against the wall next to them.  
“Gwen--”

“Arthur, he's a stable _boy_ ,” she said, sounding very much like the mother he would have had, had she lived. “A stable boy that's not quite right in the head, not to mention. If it'd been a chambermaid...”

“Then I think Lancelot would have my head, quite certainly,” Arthur glanced over at his butler.

Lancelot gave him a look. A half joking look, but still a half dangerous look.

“See?”

Gwen crossed her arms, “Arthur, you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.”

“It's just for the summer,” Arthur said, wondering if he was being truthful or not. “When I get back to London...things will probably be different. Besides, Merlin might be the ghost. Maybe I'll finally to tempt him to show himself.”

He reached for another tart, and the three of them fell silent.

 

Lancelot and Gwen were both asleep, tumbled all over each other and Lancelot had a snore that could rock the dead. Arthur wondered how Gwen stood it. The strawberry tarts were long gone, and Arthur amused himself picking crumbs from the plate. Perhaps Merlin was the ghost after all.

He was bleary-eyed with sleep when the shadow floated up to him. For the first time, Arthur saw the shadow's face, it looked morose, lonesome.

“Why are you haunting this house?” The words slipped from his mouth in a whisper.

The ghost tilted his head.

“Why are you haunting me? Why do you hate my father?”

The ghost put one finger against his lips and then to his belly. Arthur flinched; he didn't feel any skin, and a painful feeling in his belly and a weak whisper of wind.

The ghost was gone.

 

“The ghost touched me.”

Merlin barely glanced at him, “So?”

“The ghost touched me.” Arthur said again.

“Marquess...” Merlin walked up to him and pressed him up against one of the wooden beams, “Ghosts can't touch people. So I'm not the ghost.”

“I know.”

Merlin paused. “You do...?”

“I saw his face. It wasn't yours.”

\--

Uther dropped by unannounced the next week. He had company with him, a Lady Helen Cornwallis, who was really too nice to hang on his father's arm like she did, or so Arthur thought. There was also the obligatory army of servants. The house felt stifled -- even with a hundred rooms. Still, Arthur was glad that he wasn't in Italy with Lady Morgana and the handsome Lord Whitaker He kept waiting for Uther to leave, but it seemed that his father had no intention of doing so. Gaius's face was drawn and taut, and Merlin seemed to have a sixth sense about his father's presence because he hadn't been by the kitchen for days.

“And where do you think you're going?”

Arthur flinched. Uther had probably come down to yell at the cooks for not sending up the right bottle of mead to his quarters, but his father always had abysmal timing.

“...To the stables,” he said. “My --” Arthur quickly caught himself, but perhaps it was too late already, “ -- the stable boy hasn't eaten.”

Uther looked properly scandalized, “Arthur, he is a stable boy,” his tone was entirely unlike Gwen's, harsh and chastising. “You're to be Duke of Devonshire. This...is _unheard of_."

“And this is Chatsworth, in the country, in the middle of bloody nowhere,” Arthur told him, “Merlin needs to eat too...even if you hate him.” That part he hadn't meant to say, but apparently, it had an effect on Uther. His father's face paled ghastly white. It was a sight he savored, and then he slipped out into the night.

\--

Arthur found the stable when the food was still warm. Merlin's door was not closed, but unlike that one memorable time, he was decent. Still, Arthur adhered to the politeness that seemed to have no place in the stables and knocked anyway.

Merlin looked up, “Arthur.”

“Sorry...I haven't been able to come that often.” Arthur offered him the plate. “My father is here. With company.” He punctuated the last part with a roll of his eyes.

“Ah. Who is it this time?"

“Lady Helen Cornwallis.” Who was a widow. So that wasn't so bad, but still, Arthur felt sorry for her. He laid down beside Merlin on the bed. “I think my father is scared of you."

“...Is he?” Merlin looked mildly interested as he picked at his food, “I wonder why.”

“You probably know why,” Arthur said dryly, picking a piece of potato off of Merlin's plate. "Won't you tell me?"

Merlin shrugged, “I know magic.”

Arthur looked at him. “What?”

“I know magic.” Merlin repeated dismissively, “Your father knows that. He also knows that he's indebted to me. And he probably hates it that you bring me dinner.”

Arthur's mind was spinning a mile a minute, but it still came down to: “You...you know magic.”

“Very old magic.” Merlin said, “And only a little. But magic nonetheless.”

Magic. Arthur had read about it in numerous books. The world they were in now, there was no room for magic. Magic knew that, and had faded away. It was a wondrous phenomenon: historians revered it, scholars were puzzled by it, scientists hated it. It was inexplicable...and it just was. It was surreal, having Merlin tell him that he knew magic.

“...Can you show me?”

Merlin dropped his fork. “Your hand, Arthur.”

Arthur felt his hand settle between Merlin's own. His fingertips tingled, and then there was a flash of brilliant gold. An orb danced up to the ceiling and out of Merlin's window.  
Arthur just stared.

“This...isn't a circus trick...is it?”

“Of course it isn't. It's also why I can see the ghost.” Merlin let go of his hand, “There are more ghosts about, but this is the one that you can see. Ghosts are souls...the souls of people who have been wronged. Until they have somehow made peace with the world that betrayed them, they can't move on.”

“Did my father kill the ghost?” Arthur asked softly, “That's why I can see it, right? I'm his son.”

There was a brief pause, “Yes.”

“Did you know him?”

There was no answer, but Merlin tangled their legs together under the ratty covers and buried his face in Arthur's shoulder. “Yes. I saw him die.”

 

“Uther limped,” Merlin said calmly that night as they lay together on his bed. “didn't he?”

“You...”

“Not me. I'd never hurt him.” Merlin shook his head, “Although sometimes I wish I could.” He had a bit of magic in his hand and Arthur watched it dance in circles on his palm. “But Old Magic's like that, once you've saved a man's life, you can't harm him. You're bound to him for the rest of his life. He can't harm me either.”

“If not you, then who?”

“The ghost.”

“But the ghost can't touch anything,” Arthur protested. “you said so yourself.”

Merlin shrugged again. He was sleepy, and his breathing was already starting to slow, his leg rubbing lazily along Arthur's thigh.

“Wait...wait a minute. Are you saying that you're bound to my father by magic for the rest of his life?” Arthur couldn't even begin to imagine.

“No, just that I can't hurt him.” Merlin glanced at him. “What a horrible fate that would be. To be bound to Duke Pendragon.”

Emboldened by this, for he really did agree wholeheartedly with Merlin, Arthur asked, “Would it be not so horrible a fate if you were bound to me, then?”

“Maybe.” Merlin didn't exactly look at him as he answered, “I'd have to save your life first.”

 

Uther did a very wise thing and did not ask Arthur about the stable boy again. The one time he did go for a ride with Lady Helen, he didn't say a single word to Merlin -- Arthur had asked him about it. Of course his father and Lady Helen stayed clear of the woods, and they brought a picnic with them to eat by the river.

Uther had never done that with him or his mother (from what little he could remember, and Arthur was beginning to realize anew that it was all very _little_ ).

And by the end of the week, Uther had his entourage of servants pack up his trunks and then he left. He spoke very little, and Arthur realized that he was carrying a limp. A rather noticeable one. Unfamiliar to the role of the caring son, the conversation had gone something like this:

“Father, you're limping.”

Uther had looked at him balefully.

“That's just your imagination.”

Arthur wanted to mention the ghost, to ask who Uther had killed, who he had wronged. But Uther was an old man, set in his ways, and Arthur knew that Chatsworth House was not exactly devoid of riding crops.

But the riding crops were all in the stable, and Merlin probably didn't let Uther near them. “I'm a little too old to be imagining things, don't you think?”  
“You must be drunk, then,” said Uther, wincing painfully as he swung on his horse.

Arthur looked at him. “I'm not drunk. Besides, I don't think my imagination would be so persistent and imagine things that even you can see.”  
“What are you talking about?” Uther narrowed his eyes.

“I'm talking about the ghost,” Arthur said. “Merlin said you could see it because you killed him.” He wasn't as surprised as he could have been, at the fact that his father had killed someone. “I can see it because I'm your son.” He'd only realized the inappropriateness of his words, the glaring accusations wrapped up in them once the words had dropped completely from his mouth.

“And your head is just turned because of a stupid stable boy. That's the end of it.” Uther snapped disgustedly. He whirled off in a huff and Arthur watched him go. His father's face had been...pale. If he dared say it, -- ghostly pale.

 

Later, Arthur went to Uther's room, clear across the house -- because he probably didn't want to remember how their summers used to be. It was a huge magnificent bedroom, even bigger than the one that Arthur had been offered the first night.

The room was spotless, except for the splotches of dried blood on the white bedsheet.


	3. Hope for the Days to Come

Arthur didn’t sleep at all that night; at least, that was what it felt like. The ghost kept a watchful vigil over his bed and Arthur thought he dreamed about the ghost’s lips moving. 

This must be what going crazy felt like. Slowly, until you hardly knew yourself. 

In the morning, Arthur woke up with sleep plaguing his head and most importantly, alone. 

 

Lancelot smoothed a hand over the sheets in the room where Uther had slept. He repeated this motion several times while Arthur watched him carefully. Finally, he shook his head. "Arthur, I don't see any blood. You must have imagined it." With that, he straightened up. "It was late when you came up here last night, anyway, wasn't it? You could only see by lamplight. And even then..."

"But there's blood," Arthur insisted, pointing to the stain; it seemed to him as clear as anything. "It's still there! The sheets haven't even been changed! Can't you see it?"

"Arthur."

"I swear, I'm not lying!" Arthur pointed to the sheets. "Father was even limping when he left --"

"Limping?" Lancelot raised a brow. "The Duke looked fine to me. Moreover, Arthur..."

"What?" Arthur couldn't help the note of irritation that had crept into his voice. 

"You don't exactly look fine yourself," Lancelot said, placing a steadying hand under Arthur's elbow. "I think you'd better lie down. I'll alert the kitchens and have them bring lunch up here to you."

 

"You're a little pale, but I think you're fine," Gwen said, giving him a concerned look. "There's no blood on the bed though, I went with Lancelot and checked. Twice."

"But I swear I saw --"

"Arthur, it was late at night," Gwen touched his arm. "You must have been tired. And I may not have the best memory in the world, but I could have sworn that the Duke was fine when he left Chatsworth."

Arthur bit his lip. "...so I'm crazy."

Gwen was quick to shake her head. "Don't say that; you're just tired. You've gone out on rides every day, no wonder you're winding down. A day of rest definitely won't hurt you."

"Or maybe the Marquess really is losing his mind. You're just too nice to tell him so," said Merlin's voice, from somewhere entirely too close by and Arthur snapped his head towards the door. It wasn't just Merlin's voice, it was the whole of Merlin - -carrying of all things, his lunch. "No wonder he's so spoilt. You people are too good to him."

Arthur tried his best not to look ill. It felt somehow embarrassing, "What are you even doing here?" 

"Don't get so worked up, Marquess." Merlin shut the door with a decisive click behind him. "Just returning the favor, for once. You've pestered me for the better part of your stay."

"Or else Gaius will have your head?" Arthur looked at him.

"Something like that."

Gwen looked between the two of them. "I'm guessing...neither of you will mind very much if I make myself scarce." She headed towards the door and nodded at Merlin. "Please, take care of Arthur."

"I'll try my best," Merlin gave her a vague half-smile of sorts. After Gwen left, he latched the door and joined Arthur on the bed. "And it looks like I will have to end up trying my best because you hardly help your own cause, Arthur."

"Is that you trying to say that you worry about me?" Arthur stared hard at the plate in his lap. "I thought you hated the house. What brought this on?"

"I do hate this house. That hasn't changed," Merlin shrugged one shoulder. "I wouldn't have had to come check up on you if you hadn't been so careless. You should have known they couldn't have seen anything." Without invitation, and breaking at least a hundred rules of polite society, Merlin sat himself down at the foot of Arthur's bed. "You know, they could make Arthur-worrying into its own sport." 

"I thought they'd be able to see the blood, at least," Arthur said, ignoring the jab. 

"Not if the ghost spilled it." Merlin shook his head. "They probably couldn't see your father's limp either, could they?"

"And now everyone thinks I'm crazy."

"Not everyone," Merlin reminded him with a little smile and a gentle kiss to his jaw. "I don't."

"But you're practically crazy on your own already, you don't count." Arthur was not in the best of moods with Merlin this morning -- rather, afternoon, it was afternoon, now.

"You hurt my feelings terribly, Marquess." Merlin clicked his tongue at him. "But I suppose you're right. At the end of the day, you are the Duke's son, so you probably can't help yourself."

"I'm nothing like my father," Arthur mumbled into his pillow, trying not to sound as offended as he felt.

"I wouldn't have come within a hundred feet of you if you were anything like the Duke. That's one thing you don't have to worry about." If anything, Merlin did sound a little too cheerful. "I like to think I'm a fair judge of character."

"That's comforting. Will you sit next to me?"

This time, Merlin did not argue. He "It should be." Merlin ran a hand through Arthur's hair. "Come now, don't mope. Everyone already thinks I'm a bad influence on you anyway, there's no need to make it any worse. Eat something." He gestured invitingly to the plate that contained Arthur's lunch. The more Arthur stared at it the less hungry he felt. 

But Merlin kept staring at him in a certain way, and Arthur complied and cut himself a piece of meat.

Merlin studied him. "Perhaps you really are ill."

"Just because I don't have an appetite doesn't mean I'm ill," Arthur reminded him tersely. "Do you even know what this means?"

"What?"

"The ghost is determined to hurt my father, this time he escaped with a limp." Arthur looked at him for a long moment. "I'm still in this house."

"Ah..." Merlin's indulgent smile flipped to a half smirk. "The Marquess is afraid of something."

Arthur glared at him. "Who said I was scared?" He stared down at his hands. "I'm just saying. If he's a ghost, then I can't touch him if he turns on me. Not exactly fair game."

Merlin nuzzled at his neck. "You forget about my magic. I'd like to think it counts for something."

"I certainly don't need you to save me," Arthur said.

"Because it's humiliating?" Merlin raised his eyebrow. "That's too bad, Arthur. I was sort of looking forward to being your white knight in shining armor."

"You..." Arthur faltered, "Shut up."

Merlin leaned forward and kissed him. Arthur smelled mead on Merlin's breath and tasted mead on Merlin's tongue. "As you wish."

 

"I thought this was supposed to be a summer holiday, Arthur." Lancelot looked down at the sword in his hand, rather puzzled but also a little bit amused. "Time to relax, sleep, swim in the river--" He cut off abruptly at the look that Arthur gave him. "Right, I forget, you don't know how to swim."

Arthur bit his lip. "For that, I hope your footwork's as nimble as you keep claiming it is, Lancelot."

Lancelot took a cautionary step back and shrugged. "I like to think it is," he said with a disarming smile. "You should try me. Don't expect me to go easy because of your little spell this morning."

There was a loud clang of metal as Arthur suddenly sprang forward. "I certainly plan to."

Merlin was watching him from a nearby tree. The tree was large, and Arthur made a mental note to ask him how he got up there so quietly without anyone noticing. Must have been magic --

There was a sudden sharp throb in his arm and Arthur's sword dropped from his grip. He stared at it for a moment before he remembered to be embarrassed.

Lancelot was smirking at him. "Gwen was right, Arthur." He bent to pick up the wayward sword and tossed it back in Arthur's general direction. "Your head's really been turned through and through by the stable boy. I wonder what your darling Spanish princess thinks about that."

"Maria doesn't know about Merlin," Arthur said hastily, turning away from the tree. "Stop making it into a big deal."

"I didn't say it was a big deal," Lancelot said. "It's just."

"Just _what_?" 

This earned him a long searching look from Lancelot. "Arthur...you've changed."

"I haven't." Arthur shook his head, "I'm just..."

"Well, if you haven't changed, Marquess, you must just be tired, or maybe you just lost your form. Either way." Then suddenly, Merlin was there, slinging a casual arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Would you mind terribly if I kidnapped him for the rest of the afternoon, Lancelot?"

 

"You really didn't have to do that," Arthur informed Merlin when they were back at the stable. "If anything, you've just gone and made things worse."

"As far as I know, I saved you from making a lengthy explanation that no one will believe. How exactly are you going to explain that you have changed? I doubt they even know how to explain that you have changed. Perhaps it is better that way." Merlin looked at him calmly. "Sword training won't do anything, especially when even your butler can best you."

"I'm having a bad day." Arthur glared at him. "Usually, Lancelot can't even touch me. And you...you're distracting. How'd you get up to that tree, anyway?"

"I climbed up there, with my wits about me. I used to do it all the time." Merlin was giving him a strange look, much like the one that Lancelot had given him earlier. "How'd you think I got up there? Magic?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Honestly, Arthur, I wouldn't have blatantly used magic in front of someone like your butler. It'd be like digging my own grave." Shaking his head, Merlin brushed a hand by his arm. "I used to climb trees all the time when I was a boy."

"...Here?"

Merlin nodded. "Here...when the Duke wasn't around, of course. Else, I probably wouldn't be here."

"...Did you put him up to this?"

"Who?"

"The ghost."

Merlin paused. "Arthur, I said the ghost won't hurt you."

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. "So you say, but excuse me if I'm not exactly comfortable with a ghost just staring at me all night. You may be used to it, but I certainly am not."

"You're thinking too much." Merlin smiled faintly at him. "Let's go for a swim."

 

"I don't know how to swim." It cost Arthur his courage and then some to admit that when they came to the river.

Merlin stopped. "You might as well learn," he reasoned evenly as he tossed his shirt aside. "When a future damsel in distress falls into a river, you can jump right in and call yourself a hero."

Arthur studied Merlin's bare back. He'd been traumatized the last time he got the chance (Uther really did take the fun out of everything without trying too hard,) but this time...

"Merlin? Where'd you get that scratch?"

There was a jagged scar along Merlin's left shoulder. "Actually..." he said, shrugging, "it was nothing. An accident when I was little." He stood up. "You're just stalling now. Shall I throw you in, instead?" he asked, smiling faintly. "I don't think anyone would be too pleased with me--or you, for that matter -- if your clothes were ruined."

"Instead of worrying about me, I suggest you worry about yourself." Arthur glanced at him. "I could just say you coerced me."

"If your pride would let you spread that story." Merlin bit back a snort. "Which I honestly doubt it will."

Arthur, momentarily distracted by Merlin jumping into the water stark naked, almost forgot to be offended. But after giving his stable boy a dirty look, he stripped off his clothing and followed suit.

 

"This water is freezing."

"Come off it, Arthur, it's not like you're going to freeze to death. It's the middle of summer."

"Yes, well, before I freeze, I'm going to drown." Arthur grabbed at the bank.

"I thought you had more faith in me than that." Merlin's arms were around him, and Arthur forced himself to relax. Maybe it would be better if he didn't think about it so much. "Do you think I'd ask you to go swimming just to drown you?"

Or Arthur could be conveniently distracted by the fact Merlin was very wet, and very indecent. That seemed to be a much better focus for his attentions than worrying about how he was going to drown.

"I was hoping you'd have other intentions, honestly," Arthur tipped his head back slightly so that he rested on Merlin's shoulder.

"Oh, I do," Merlin's smirk widened, "Thoroughly indecent intentions." Gently, he turned Arthur around in the water, hitching Arthur's legs up around his waist. "I trust that you'll enjoy them."

 

He would only admit it within the deeply private recesses of his mind, but Arthur did end up enjoying Merlin's indecent intentions. Both of them were lying on the grass, and Arthur turned on his side to look at Merlin. Merlin, who always looked so troubled before, looked peaceful and content. When Arthur made to lay his head 

"Will you tell me about the ghost?" Arthur asked softly.

"I told you he's not going to hurt you." Merlin said. "Why do you want to know so much?"

Arthur hooked his fingers with Merlin's. "He's important to you, that's why. I can tell."

"I had no idea you spoke poetry so well." Merlin looked genuinely surprised.

Arthur smiled a little. "I try," he said, giving Merlin's hand a squeeze. "I didn't think you'd fall for poetry, Merlin."

"I don't. But I'll tell you," Merlin said, "since you want to know so much."

"How kind of you."

"I try." It was Merlin's turn to smile. "I knew him when I was a boy. We used to climb trees together. He taught me how."

"Here at Chatsworth? How come I never saw you?"

"You were probably too young to remember me." Merlin shrugged one shoulder. "But I remember you...you were here one summer. I was grooming one of the horses. You were with your mother."

Arthur paused. "My...mother?"

"She was nice...the Duchess gave me her handkerchief. I still have it." Merlin smiled at him. "You were afraid of me...well, either me or the horse."

"It was probably you," Arthur looked at him.

"Probably." Merlin propped himself up on his elbows. "We should go, Gaius will never forgive me if the precious Marquess catches a cold." With that, he stood abruptly to retrieve the pile of clothing that they'd left by the bank.

For a moment, Arthur did not move. He just lay there, hands outstretched towards the dusky sky.

"Arthur?" Merlin looked at him.

"We should just stay here forever." Arthur grinned at him.

Merlin was rolling his eyes, probably, as he pulled his shirt over his head. "Don't be ridiculous. You’re such a boy."

 

"Merlin is joining us as the table. Set a place for him," Arthur announced to a dining room full of people that that simultaneously went slackjawed. (Hopefully they went slackjawed at the nature of his request and not at how utterly wrecked he looked, or at the grass stains on his shirt and trousers.)

"I'm not staying, Arthur," Merlin immediately said, "I never said I was staying, anyway."

"Well, you're staying." Arthur gave him a look. "Come on, just sit down."

Gaius coughed pointedly. "Arthur..."

"It may have slipped your mind, Marquess, but you've just committed treason by offering a mere stable boy a seat at your table." Merlin quickly wrenched his hand out of Arthur's grip. "I'm leaving."

Merlin was walking away.

Arthur thought fast. “Wait!”

Merlin stopped, and Gaius looked as if he was prepared to hit Arthur with something blunt. Gwen seemed hesitant, and Lancelot’s shoulders were shaking with silent mirth, because of course this was funny.

“Figuratively speaking, if everyone sits and eats with me, it wouldn’t exactly be treason, would it?” Arthur said, “So...everyone, sit down.”

Lancelot clapped a hand on his young master’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have been any more eloquent about it, sir. All that is left for you to do now is to get on your knees and grovel for your stable boy’s mercy.”

Arthur had the decency to look (somewhat) horrified. “Lancelot...”

Lancelot blinked at him nonchalantly. “Am I wrong, Arthur?”

Gwen was giggling quietly with her hand over her mouth--but still, it was giggling all the same.

With a shake of his head, Merlin walked back to the table and put a hand on Arthur’s head. For the first time, Arthur realized that Merlin was indeed taller than he was, and the discovery irked him to no end.

“You really are hopeless sometimes, Marquess.” And then Merlin took a seat in the chair on Arthur’s right and reached for a silk napkin set in front of the place. “Since you've come just short of groveling, then I guess I will have to abide by your wishes.”

Arthur smiled at him and sat. Gwen and Lancelot followed suit. Some of his father’s servants dawdled, and Arthur sent one confused looking boy down to the cellar for wine.

By the time the wine was gone, even Gaius was sitting at the table.

 

“So I’ve ate at your table, I’ve drunk your wine,” Merlin mused as he and Arthur made slow progress up the stairs while the others scurried back to their rightful stations. “What next? I suppose I will have to share your bed too?”

Arthur flushed a brilliant red. “You said it, I certainly didn’t.”

“Then...would you be averse to it?” Merlin nuzzled at him.

“You know I wouldn’t be.” Arthur glanced at him briefly. “For someone who’s so averse to this house, you’ve adapted nicely.”

“It’s the wine, Marquess.” Merlin smiled and rubbed Arthur’s arm. “Just the wine. I'm not going to let you take all the credit."

Even if it was really just the wine, Arthur was glad for it. He unlatched the door to his bedroom and Merlin followed him in.

“Arthur.”

Arthur paused. “What?”

Merlin looked uncertain for a moment, but he swallowed and said, “You...you slept in this room when you were a boy.”

Arthur felt a shiver crawl up his spine. "How did you --”

Merlin shrugged. “I just do. Magic, maybe.”

“You and your magic.” Arthur held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I suppose it lets you have an answer for everything.” He sank down on a pile of pillows with a slight pout to his lips.

“Almost everything, but not quite,” Merlin laughed. He crawled into bed next to Arthur and Arthur put his arms around him. “I’m just glad I wasn’t born a seer, it’d be terribly boring to know what the future holds...and anyway, it’s not even magic.”

“What...seeing the future?” Arthur mulled this over. “I suppose so. I’d take that over being able to see ghosts.”

“Because he scares you?”

“Because he gives me a bad feeling.” Arthur glared at him. “Stop doing that, putting words in my mouth.”

For his pains, Merlin gave him a look again, biting his lip. “You’re that inspiring. We shouldn’t look so suspicious when your chambermaid is coming to check on you any minute--”

“If you’ve been around her long enough, you’ll learn that it’s useless to hide anything from Gwen,” Arthur said with a shake of his head. “Just stay, it doesn't matter.”

As if on cue, Gwen poked her head in with a lamp in hand. “And I thought you knew me well enough to know that whenever you talk about me, I know about it.” She surveyed the scene before her with a hand planted on her hip. “You two look comfortable.”

“We’re comfortable,” Merlin said.

“Right, I’m sure.” Gwen half rolled her eyes. “Good night, Arthur. Merlin.” A nod, then she left, the faint lamplight following her shadow.

The ghost was there. There in that very room, but for once, Arthur wasn’t going to wake up for it. But he knew it was there because his bones chilled.

Arthur moved closer to Merlin and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Even with that, he could tell the ghost was smiling at him, the way it always did.

Then he suddenly could not breathe. When Arthur opened his eyes, the ghost was leering at him.

“I’m going to kill you.” It was as if the wind had spoken it, but the words rang in his head.

Clawing at his throat, Arthur found nothing there. Merlin shifted quietly beside him. It never occurred to him to scream...though he opened his mouth and nothing came out. His sword suddenly seemed a million reaches away.

_Merlin! Wake up!_

“Arthur!” For someone who had just woken up, Merlin was incredibly nimble. In a swift motion that any serious fencer would have envied, he tossed the ghost over onto the bed and Arthur just stared.

The ghost lay very still. And it touched Merlin’s face.

Merlin flinched a little, Arthur thought -- or maybe he’d wanted to imagine it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have taught me that.”

The ghost shrugged.

“Arthur...Arthur is nothing like the Duke,” Merlin said. “He’s been nothing but kind to me, he’s nothing like his father. You’ve no reason to hurt him, Will.” He paused for a long moment. “Arthur makes me happy. So...it’s all right, I think. It wasn't all right before. But it's all right now.”

Merlin looked towards him for a long moment.

Arthur looked towards the ghost, actually tried to smile at it. He might have felt more silly, if the ghost's own thin lips hadn't twitched upwards. "Merlin makes me happy too."

Then the ghost was gone. 

“Tell me about it,” Arthur said quietly as he opened hims arms to a weary Merlin, “...soon?”

"Soon."

There was warm magic against Arthur’s mouth.

 

The day after that, Merlin was delirious in the morning. He didn't even seem to recognize Arthur, when Arthur did visit. And he visited often.

Three long, long days passed before Arthur got Merlin to talk again. Otherwise, he looked ghastly pale, like he was ill. Arthur ordered him to stay in bed, but of course Merlin didn't listen.

The ghost seemed to be gone for good. Which was a good thing, of course, but Arthur was still disturbed by the fact that Merlin wasn’t talking to him. On their first ride out after the incident, Merlin directed them into the forest to a small clearing. They both rode on Laurent because Arthur kept having the worst feeling that Merlin was going to fall off.  
There was a small pile of stones there, arranged carefully by someone into a circle. Arthur walked towards it, carrying Merlin on his back in spite of vehement complaints from Merlin that he was indeed all well and fine.

“You can complain all you want, but I’m not letting you down.”

“Prat,” Merlin mumbled into Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur looked back at him. “I’m trying to help you, how does that make me a prat?”

“I don’t need your help.”

“So you’re so fond of saying,” Arthur brushed that off with a mild shrug. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I built that when I was eleven.” Merlin pointed to the pile of stones. “Gaius lied to me and said that was where they buried Will. I think they burned him.”

Arthur was silent.

“He was the stable boy before me.” Merlin’s voice was considerably muffled. “He taught me all sorts of things, stupid things, wise things...Will knew about my magic.” His voice shook just a little. “He was the first person I ever told. Gaius doesn't count, if you're wondering, he already knew.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur asked, “What happened to him?”

“He...well, no, that’s not right.” Merlin shook his head. “I...I went riding in the wood, and...I went riding on one of your father’s best--favorite horses. It hurt its foot. It’d never walk again. My magic was weak then, I had no chance of healing it.” For a long moment, Merlin didn’t say anything. “Your father was absolutely furious with me. He threatened to have me flogged.”

“And Will took your place.”

Merlin nodded.

“And even after all that, you still elected to save my father.” Arthur glanced at him.

"I did," Merlin affirmed soberly, his arms tightening a little around Arthur's neck. "Will came one night and tried to stab your father while he was asleep. Much like he did a few days ago."

Arthur said, "...Did you stop that too? So you were in the house before? That night."

"I was, yes." Maybe it was Arthur's imagination, but it seemed like Merlin was almost ashamed of his decision.

Merlin had made it more than clear that he hated Chatsworth House and everything that it stood for. It was this house that had witnessed the murder of his dear friend and Arthur's own father had a direct hand in it. Yet, Merlin came to him, and stayed with him in the house. "Why?"

“Because...” There was a brief pause, and then Merlin said, “I thought of you. You aren’t your father, Arthur--though at times you do try to be. Must you need a reason for everything? It does get a little tiresome that way.”

"How am I like my father?"

If anything, Merlin looked pained at his query. "Arthur, you belong to your father's world. You are his son. And one day, you shall be like him, whether I like it or not." He ran a hand through Arthur's hair, "Following in your whimsical footsteps, I wish I could keep you like this forever."

Somehow, Arthur’s own eyes stung. (He’d never admit it, though). “I’ll make it up to you,” he spoke solemnly to the pile of stones after taking a minute to collect himself. “I’ll protect Merlin...and I promise to do right by him.”

“Do right by me?” Merlin sounded rightly amused. “I’m hardly going to make you the king of Spain.”

“No, but playing the damsel in distress hardly suits me,” Arthur decided as he turned away from the pile of stones. “Next time, it’s going to be my turn.”

Merlin kissed his cheek. “I’ll look forward to that.”

 

The day that Arthur was scheduled to journey back to London, he went to the stables to fetch Laurent for one last ride, feeling more miserable than he could ever remember. Merlin met him there, and Laurent’s coat was so smooth it practically glowed.

Merlin simply handed him the reins and said nothing. They’d said so much already. Arthur swung easily onto his horse and looked down.

“You should come with me to London,” Arthur said softly. “I’d take care of you like I promised him. Devonshire isn’t as big as Chatsworth and belongs to someone else for the moment, but I’m sure there’s room for you. If there isn't I'd find room.”

“I had the feeling you’d ask me that,” Merlin said with an amiable shrug. “But no, I hate the city.”

“Merlin --”

Merlin held up a hand, “Before you say anything, no, don’t ask me again. I’m not changing my mind.” He dug in his pocket and came up with a small silk bundle. “This is for  
you.”

Arthur held out his hand. “What’s that?”

“Your mother’s handkerchief,” Merlin grinned. “With a little magic. Like I promised.”

The “You didn’t promise.” Arthur pointed out; it was the truth, after all. Merlin never really promised him anything.

“Must have slipped my mind. Now I promise.” Merlin smiled at him warmly, squeezing Arthur’s hand.

Arthur bit his lip. “I wish,” he began and then , “I wish that you would change your mind.”

“I won't,” Merlin paused. “But I might surprise you someday.” His smile was almost promising, if not quite.

Arthur reached out and gripped Merlin's hand in turn. “I’d like that.” And he hoped it was soon.


End file.
